


The Air Up Here

by Damalia (Achrya)



Series: BeruJean Week 2016 [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Language, M/M, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 18:42:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6251209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Achrya/pseuds/Damalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All his life Jean dreamed about the stars. He’d spent long hours pouring over star charts and imaging what it would be like to be out among them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Air Up Here

All his life Jean dreamed about the stars. He’d spent long hours pouring over star charts and imaging what it would be like to be out among them.

He’d dreamed of joining his planet’s navy and being on a ship that traveled to the farthest reaches to uphold the law, and other noble things like that. It was what his parents had done and like their parents before them.

It was tradition.

It was what he was meant to do. A nice title, eventually, a pretty wife, some kids, a nice home, respect and maybe a little power, just like the rest of his family.

But instead of a first class naval vessel he was crammed into the bunk of the Recon, a rickety ship who’s AI hated him, floating around in the unregulated zones. Instead of being military he was a bounty hunter, just barely above the criminals he brought in in the eyes of society, estranged from his family and carrying the weight of their disappointment on his shoulders. No title and no power-hell they could barely keep the power on in the Recon sometimes-, just guns and jobs that took him to the worst of the worst places. No men who answered to him, just Annie, Marco, and Bertholdt who were more likely to laugh in his face then do anything for him. 

No pretty wife and kids seemed pretty fucking unlikely.

The only thing that had really worked out was that he’d ended up out there, in space, surrounded by stars and had the freedom to go just about anywhere. It all stretched out before him and he was the one who choose which way he went and when.

If he wanted he could have sat in the cockpit and watched the stars go by for hours.

He had, at first, so in awe of just how big it all was and just how small he seemed in comparison, alone and floundering and naive and afraid because it wasn’t supposed to be his life. Not him.

Not anymore though. Now he crams into his small bunk, draped over Bertholdt’s body, sweat cooling over his skin. Bert is quiet, more or less asleep judging by how even his breathing has become, and Jean is tracing the scars on his lover’s body.

Some he knows intimately, had cleaned and stitched or bandaged himself, and others pre-date their association. Back when Jean was dreaming of stars and the military Bert had been in a mine somewhere, breaking his body down bit by bit because that was what people from his planet did. There hadn’t been any dreams of being out among the stars for him and, even now, he disliked looking out at where they were. Bertholdt was happier with his feet firmly on the ground and the sky above him, where it belonged.

Stargazing held no interest to him. Bertholdt wasn’t a ‘dreamer’, hadn’t had the luxury to be one, and lived in a world of facts and figures and heartbreaking efficiency. They got jobs, he got them done, and he never let the cost break him down like Jean did. Bertholdt didn’t cry if ‘Dead or Alive’ almost always meant dead and he didn’t dream about the lives they’d had to snuff out to get their paychecks.

Most nights Jean gave up his late night vigils in favor of tracing the marks on Bertholdt’s body. There was a cluster on his lower back where they’d put in pins the reminded Jean of a constellation and a scar that went from collar bone to belly button, right between his ribs, for reasons Jean didn’t know. A slaving brand on his shoulder blade and two letters in splotchy black ink on the other, all marks that Annie shared and that they both wore with pride: an R and am M, for people Jean would never meet. 

He’d asked Marco about them once, since Marco had known them longer, and Marco’s wry response had been that Annie was more of a ‘shut up while I beat your ass’ kinda woman than a ‘conversations in the dark’ sort when they were in bed. 

There was more than that, of course. Bullet holes, marks from where he’d been stabbed and slashed, places where rocks had crushed and bitten into him, burn scars from plasma weapons. He’d touched them all with eyes, fingers, and his mouth more than once.

It helped him sleep better, helped calm his mind and keep the nightmares at bay. Helped him feel a little less small for a short time. Helped ground him some.

Bertholdt was as close to home as Jean was ever going to get again so maybe it made sense that he had a body that was a bit like a star chart, tan skin marked by pale pockmarks and long raised lines that Jean knew just about by heart.


End file.
